


Pretty When You Cry

by bipalium



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Blood and Injury, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Control Issues, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 18:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13553364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bipalium/pseuds/bipalium
Summary: Everyone knows Miller’s scandalous trick: he leans into personal space with a wet glint of his teeth complemented by neon shining of his aviators, and behind them burns a devilish spark of his blue eyes. He winks, simple as that, but it’s all that’s necessary for triumph. When you inhale Miller’s over-indulged cologne, it’s too late.





	Pretty When You Cry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaBelleQuaintrelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelleQuaintrelle/gifts).



> For MGS Supply Drop 2017, wish 186:  
> Peace Walker era: Commander Miller sets his eyes on the cute medic, and eventually they sleep together. For Kaz it's nothing but a one night stand. For medic it's everything, though he'd never admit how heartbroken he is.

Through the junction of your crossed arms seeps in thick orange light. It’s besotting more than the margarita you’ve had but not as much as the bronze glow of Commander’s shoulders. You hide a sheepish grin, burying your face into your far from fresh fatigues. At night like this it’s hard to contain inexplicable joy that rattles through your bones with ache for action.

Everyone knows Miller’s scandalous trick: he leans into personal space with a wet glint of his teeth complemented by neon shining of his aviators, and behind them burns a devilish spark of his blue eyes. He winks, simple as that, but it’s all that’s necessary for triumph. When you inhale Miller’s over-indulged cologne, it’s too late; his smile is already in effect that can’t be undone. You’ve heard soldiers whispering to one another in the bay about how skillfully he got into Gazelle’s bed the other day. Took him half a wine bottle and a few laboriously laidback compliments that nobody was lucky to overhear. One of the soldiers sighed with a yearning that had been as well wringing your chest.

So Miller’s palm lies flat on the impromptu counter which is a crate, his thumb haphazardly brushing your elbow – preliminary tactics. He makes sure that you see his muscles flexing in the sunset rays from under his loosened ascot that hangs on his shoulders like a damp towel. There’s no choice but to take in the offered view. Miller smirks.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Such a well-performed pattern of huskiness and a fake tipsy note – you didn’t see him drinking. A creeping blush on his tan face contradicts the blunt gaze drilling you from under the aviators. What an exquisite take. You raise your glass.

A guitar strums closer to the beach, soldiers calling him up. He waves and beams at them, shouting a promise to be back in a moment. Instead, he encircles the crate and plops down by your side. The telltale brush of his shoulder against yours is no accident either.

“Give me a drink, Doc,” he suggests with wholesome amusement. You catch yourself staring a little too dazzled. He laughs as you hand him a beer bottle.

“Aren’t you bored here all by yourself?”

His lips part and he makes a gulp just enough to moisten them. Leans back on his arms. You try not to linger on his sculpted abdomen.

“No,” you say after clearing your throat. “I’m not very fond of crowds.”

Miller chuckles. Beads of sweat are rolling down his tight pectorals.

“Then why are you here?”

The sunset gushes over the beach, swallowing the yellow hues and sharpening the shades. Out there on the horizon flows a blurry caravan of magenta clouds.

“Enjoying the view.”

Next morning you regret saying this while Miller’s sly smile emerges in your memory through waves of enveloping hangover. You don’t usually drink, but yesterday you clearly had one too many margaritas and stared at him too explicitly. Years of practice of concealing your unorthodox attractions have been conquered by a few drinks and an all too cunning way of letting an ascot hover over one’s chest in the most gorgeous manner.

Being in hideout isn’t anything new for you, you’re used to your tastes being frowned upon. Back at the medical school you had a close friend – Kenneth was his name. Tall, brilliant, genial and a total flirt. It took you three academic years to build up the courage. Your confession was planned on the prom night but got cancelled as you witnessed him in the middle of a suggestive dance with your underclassmate Donna.  

Well, it’s not that you’ve never let the cover slid. Although it’s been over a year since you got some – nothing serious, he was well-built and clean-shaven, with a name as fake as the one you used – it isn’t bothering you. Not much. Medical experience has taught you that a body is an intricately built assemblage of organs, muscles, fat and liquids all neatly wrapped into skin, doesn't matter what color or texture because underneath it everyone has the same asset of intestines. And when a bullet hits through it the process of extracting is the same, save for the details.

That’s what you tell yourself holding up pincers in a firm gloved hand. Boss winces a little as you pull the shrunk slug out of his shoulder. His stance never falters and he reaches out for a cigar as you drop the bloodied peace of metal into a bowl.

“Not in the bay,” you remind him with a polite smile. He tskes, biting into the cigar without lighting it up.

You patch him up and his iris never moves, focused on nothing. It’s like Boss is looking not at the outside world but inside his own head; you’ve seen that stare of his enough to distinguish it. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not even with a professional. It could’ve helped his insomnia, ease the anxiety. Perhaps you could even get some medicine, but he’s too stubborn. So you tap his bicep to snap him out of it. The unblinking eye shifts to you, menacing and lost at once.

“Say, Medic,” he utters without breaking heavy eye-contact. “Did Kaz behave while I was out?”

Oh, that. Although Commander sure loves to boast about his escapades, Boss doesn’t seem to approve of those and he didn’t swallow the incident with Gazelle. You heard extra loud shouts and fighting noises from their tent the following night after Miller’s latest infamous adventure. Even caught something about the face of the organization but tried to ignore it. Your business is to treat the injured, not to eavesdrop the command’s quarrels.

So you take a moment to evaluate Miller’s chastity to report to your Boss. Among recollections of the joyful gathering slips Miller sitting next to you with an amused smile, wind messing up with short strands of hair falling on his forehead. He paid no mind to the inviting shouts of the soldiers but as soon as Lama ran up to him with a ball he sprung up and whipped off. In that careless move his ascot fell from his shoulders and landed on the sand next to your twitching hand. You did hesitate a few moments. It was already pretty dark. You grabbed the cloth, bringing it to your nose and inhaled the bittersweet mix of sweat, cologne, coconut oil, musk and something spicy you couldn’t quite pinpoint. The scent was even more heady than the alcohol in your system.

“Commander didn’t do anything corrupt that I know of,” you say after a moment of consideration. Boss lets out a dry laugh, pleased with the joke.

Flirting isn’t considered vicious, knowing Miller’s playful nature. It wasn’t even flirting, he only does that to girls. He’s easygoing, if anything. A pleasant company, and if something he said or did seemed to you as a hint after several drinks, it shouldn’t concern Boss. Or should it?

You know it was nothing. There are all kinds of rumors over MSF; you’ve heard an exchange between male soldiers about Commander looking kind of cute without the glasses. They could just as well be starving for a pretty face, and while you wouldn’t claim that the word suits your Commander, you could still regard him as handsome. Incredibly so. The way he tips back his head and exhales before saying a light-hearted _Good job!_ , how he flashes up a grin at you whenever he drops by the bay for a band-aid, his tan fingers with neatly clipped nails touching the strings of guitar, his lips pursing a little when he concentrates on documents–

Oh, well.

The other day you catch yourself drifting off again and again as you patch the soldiers returned from the recent mission. But something Hippo says as you finish sewing his wound drives your attention.

“Can you imagine, Cheetah said he saw Boss in a bar up the town, and dressed as a civilian, no less!” he says to Mongoose who’s sitting on the opposite cot – you’ve dealt with him already and advised him to lie down but he kept stubbornly refusing.

“Maybe he confused Boss with someone else?” Mongoose prompts, but Hippo shakes his head with enthusiasm of a thirsty gossiper.   

“No way, he was with Commander Miller! Man, I wish I could go to town and hit up on girls too,” he drawls a whine.

Mongoose cackles.

“Do you think they hunt together? And, maybe... share the girls?”

The joined laugher of both makes tension swell in your forehead.

“Be quiet,” you urge Hippo with a menacing tone, “I’m not done here.”

At night when a stripe of moonlight cuts through the bay you’re restless, tossing and turning and trying to banish the image out of your mind. You can never glimpse the girl’s face but you clearly see Boss’ broad back as she sucks him off and Miller’s ecstatic mouth gap as he takes her from behind, fingers raking against her flushed skin. Soon Boss and the girl recede into the background and altogether disappear. Miller is hot against your palms, arms raised and hands gripping onto the bed railing, hips rolling and jerking under your weight as you slam deep and fast inside him, eliciting raw moans from his throat.

Come gets cold in your fist as you pant in the aftermath. You clench your teeth in frustration; you mustn’t think about it but here you are. It’s too late. Your shift starts in three hours and you fall into hectic sleep, dreaming about Miller’s fingers raking against your flushed skin as he takes you from behind.

Perhaps your continence has expired, you think as you give yet another injection to a wounded a few days later. Although you see enough naked bodies per day, often dirty or slightly mutilated, not at all toned – well, some are, but – these are no more than your patients. Nothing gets you so worked up like a curve of Commander Miller’s defined cheekbone that you glimpse far out from the tent. A vague dread that someday he will have to come up for a check up, or god forbid with an injury, sends shivers down your spine. You hope that by that time another member would be hired into the medical facility, or you’re downright doomed.

The absent-mindedness of your performance makes you settle on asking for a leave warrant. Better take care of this little nuisance before it starts affecting your efficiency – hell, you’re up every night despite the exhaustion.

So you ask for half a day out. Having not many nice civilian clothes, you borrow a Hawaiian shirt and tennis shoes from Cheetah.  

“It’s my lucky shirt,” he comments, handing you his treasures. “Girls always buy into it.”

Cheetah winks. You attempt a smile that comes out a little crooked.

Having washed your pants and underwear, you apply some aftershave and even add a tiny bit of gel to your hair to make it look fresher. All set, you hit the road to town.

The weather is nice, windless and rosy, flowers heavy with dew. You stop by a little bar at the road, not much crowded, with a tired bartender at the counter. Hit a Budweiser for a start. As you aren’t a young man anymore you don’t have high expectations. It’s nearly impossible to spot a willing man who seems like he’s into what you are into. Most are talking to girls. The others look too unapproachable even for a little chat.

After finishing the beer you set out for the next spot.

A couple obscured bars later you’ve switched to margaritas and quietly given up on luck. What were you thinking in the first place? Another bar you pass looks tiny and shabby, there’s no sign plate on it so you stroll in. Just a few more drinks and you can call it a day.

It’s dark with only a few people inside, you go straight up the counter and plop on a barstool. A subtle coconut scent reaches your nose. Your heart skips a bit.

“You alone, Doc?”

A couple of stools to the left, leaning on his arm sits no other than Сommander Miller, idly twirling a cocktail umbrella. His left wrist is clutched by a golden watch that you haven’t seen before – he must’ve closed a particularly successful deal. But what drives your attention even more is that Miller’s aviators are sitting up his forehead. You don’t remember the last time you saw his eyes, in the dim light of the bar they glint with a spark of watery blueness. His eyelids are a little puffed. Perhaps it’s poor lighting but he has a somewhat frustrated look about him. He beckons you to come closer which you waste no time to do.

“Didn’t think you were into this kind of style. It suits you, though,” he chuckles, nodding at your – Cheetah’s – shirt. You thank him and a smile comes out more nervous than you want it to be, so you cover it with a large sip of a cocktail.

Miller himself is dressed as usual save for his army jacket tied at his hips. The way his ascot embraces his neck while his shoulders are exposed thanks to a white tank top is enchanting, and you find yourself lingering on his glowing skin. He leans closer, cupping his face with his palm. What a cunning but damn charming smile.

“So, any luck yet?” he mutters, and his lips curl around a string of his drink, sizzling eyes never leaving yours. You swallow.

“Not much,” you confess under his playful gaze. Alcohol has well kicked into your system and before you can think it over you continue: “I don’t go to such places often. Frankly, I’d rather avoid these.”

Miller laughs, raising his chin from his palm. He calls up the bartender and orders two beers.

“On me,” he smiles, sliding a bottle to you. Opens his and again you can’t help staring as his wet mouth closing around the bottle neck.

“You know, Medic,” Miller says with a devilish grin, “I could offer you some advice on that.”

“Huh?”

Pretending to be oblivious is safer than rushing, isn’t it? Your cheeks burn. It’s a known fact how good Miller is at flirting, but not only at that.

He leans closer, his bare shoulder brushing against your arm. Your fingernails dig into your thigh.

“You’re good-looking enough, which is a great advantage on its own,” he says in a lowered voice. Now that was a compliment but thanking him for that would be awkward. You peer at the beer in your hand.

“So what you need is confidence in pressure and a little cash,” he proceeds, twisting his wrist. “Put on your best smile, approach your target – casually, the less effort the better, speak as if you’ve known her for years. Relax, and it goes smoothly.”

You take a sip, weighting up an answer. A beer after heavier drinks makes your head light.

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, doing your best not to sound sour. “I guess one has to have a talent at this.”

Miller clicks his tongue, finishing the beer and setting the bottle to the counter. Waves the bartender for renewal.

“There are three components to it: talent, practice, and luck. Having any of them makes zero into one. Of course, having them combined leads to a hundred, but confidence is a must anyhow.” He pays you a curious glance. “Or do you want me to join in for the hunt?”

You can’t contain a laugh. He laughs back, seizing your shoulder in a comfortable hold. Mellow puddle blows in the pit of your stomach.

Just as the image of Miller and Boss sharing a faceless girl resurfaces in your mind, Boss is substituted by you. Maybe the girl could pass out drunk. Or maybe you could watch Miller’s gaping mouth all you want as he fucks her. Your face heats up, a _yes_ almost slips from your tongue when crippling dread overflows you: what if you fail at performing? Then Miller would have your secret figured out easily like taking candy from a baby.

“I’m kidding,” he chuckles, waving the bottle. “You aren’t that kind of guy, are you.”

As you nod, tacky regret surges within you. The idea wasn’t that bad, after all. But Miller orders more drinks and soon you two are chatting with simple lightheartedness. You laugh at his jokes, mostly listen, tell him a few stories from medical school. It hits you that you’re enjoying his company and it’s reciprocated; you’re not the military base commander and the battlefield medic but just two fellas having a good time in a bar at a lovely night. Like endless war never happened.

You feel warm but when Miller glances at his trophy watch and mutters that it’s time to go, your feet are wobbly and surroundings spin in the corners of your sight. Miller won’t stop grinning and blabbering as he drags you outside – the air is sultry and almost liquid, adding to the heat of your body. Miller’s arm is wrapped around your shoulders and it’s hard to say who’s supporting whom. His armpit is so close to your face that you can see fair hairs glinting in subdued lights. As he keeps going on about a new job offer that requires vehicle expansion, you lean closer and inhale his prominent sweat scent. An urge to lick him all over seizes you, and you bite your lip fighting it. 

“Hold on,” Miller drawls, reeling on his heels as he steps a bit away and motions to a corner of a low building. “Gotta take a piss.”

With that pronounced, you feel your own bladder being about to burst. You nod, leaning against a wall with your hands in your pockets as he disappears between thick bushes. Withdrawal of other’s warmth makes you realize that you feel a little sick. Few passersby blur in your vision, and you step farther into the greens opposite of Miller’s direction.

You could induce vomiting and instantly feel better, and that's what you'd do if you were on your own. Relieving yourself you try to focus on counting stars above. The sky is crisp clear and squinting helps to make out some, but you’re definitely too drunk for the task.

“Isn’t that The Southern Cross?” you hear from behind, and zip up. A hand slips over the small of your back; blood rushes to your face and limbs and off them in a flash as Miller pulls you in and kisses you hard. There’s a steady ring in your ears; his tongue parts your mouth and rubs against yours; you can’t quite follow up his vigor but your hands cooperate faster than your brain, embracing him and sliding over his sides to his back and lower.

“You know, you aren’t very subtle,” Miller chuckles, parting from you. Your heartbeat rate is dangerously high as you peer into his drooped eyes.

It must be a dream, you must’ve passed out in that bar, you think as he dives in with renewed energy, lapping at your mouth and groping your waist, hips, thighs – it’s uncomfortable to stay upright but here you are, chained on the spot, bewitched. He’s pressing firmly into your body, hard against your own crotch. And that’s just from a kiss.

Miller’s lips slide to suck on your neck. Your mind catches up – he’s still here, Commander Miller, kissing you not at all ambiguously. Nausea is replaced by sweet strain in your stomach as his arms lock around your middle; he’s pulling you on himself. Moonlight falls on his face, his bronze cheekbones and refined nose and irresistible lips. It takes you an effort not to fall to your knees and kiss his knuckles.

“Let’s go get a room,” Miller murmurs, and just like that he leans away and springs out of the bushes, his warmth clinging to you. Afraid that he runs away, having you fooled, you tag behind on your staggering legs.

It takes a while for him to find a shady hotel and rent a room – you’re out, waiting – and alcohol starts evaporating from your system. You feel a slight disturbance, a bad premonition. And as much as you want him, you still can’t wrap your head around the fact that not only your Commander is open to both currents, he’s also chosen you as his target.

The thought submerges to the back of your mind as Miller peeks out of the window on the second floor, mouthing _206_ with a small cunning smile. The speed with which you start off is matching for a marathon runner. The prize is too alluring.

The room is the most nondescript there can be, you can’t care less. Miller’s standing on his knees on a bed, one hand loosening the ascot, the other taking off his glasses. His makes an ostentatious gesture and flashes a smirk at you.

“We don’t have all day,” he cooes. Your feet move with crystalline resolution.

Miller is enjoying himself, if anything. But as you ruck up his shirt, mapping his sun-kissed skin with your hands, touching him wherever you can reach, you realize his movements are somewhat restricted. Hesitant. There’s scarce absent-mindedness in his look that has nothing to do with the alcohol. He pulls you closer, but you feel that his mind isn’t with you.

You want to draw back but _do you_? His throaty breaths and whispered phrases in an unknown language as he lowers down under your touch inflame an ancient, sacred longing in you. You feel hot, pulling his clothes off and kissing everywhere you can reach, feeling how he tenses with each kiss, catches your head.

“C’mon, you don’t have to–” he pants. You raise your face from his stomach, mesmerized: Miller’s hair is messed up, sticking to his forehead and scattered on the pillow; kiss-me-now lips reddened. He’s _beautiful_.

“Listen, I don’t follow, I lead,” he says with a little frown and rises on his elbows. As much as you desire anything he could give you, you can’t help but sense faint insecurity in his voice. Miller sits up, facing you, and up close you notice that his glances sideways. He’s... blushing?

This new discovery banishes your previous concerns and you wrap both arms around his middle as he’s sitting on your lap. You want to hold him like this and that would be enough, even at this point, but Miller’s sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, grazing his teeth against it. You don’t remember the last time you were so enormously hard.

Miller seems to love kissing necks and you’re happy to oblige; his bulge brushes against yours through the layers of clothes. His hands slip underneath your shirt – you don’t notice when it gets unbuttoned as he slides it down your shoulders. Air gets stuck in your throat and you catch a large gulp, cupping his ass and pressing him closer. Your chests touch and you feel Miller’s sweat; his arms curl around your neck as he grinds against you, a ripe moan on his parted lips.

When he pushes you into the bed and swishes down your pants, he doesn’t look diffident anymore. You’re burning as he crawls on top of you, naked: the friction is fierce. Miller entwines his legs with yours, harsh breaths through his teeth, nails dipping into your shoulders. Through the haze of lowered eyelids you see his lips twisting and mouth parting, sputtering words that make your gut tremble. He’s strong, drastic, firm; you cup his jaw and he catches your wrist without effort, pinning it above your head and blocking your mouth with his tongue like a hungry wolf. His cock is rubbing against yours in a puddle of shared sweat. You grab his shoulder.

Miller halts, staring at you, and you know he’s fully present now as he asks in alarm: “What’s wrong? Does it hurt?”

The thoughtfulness of it overflows you, eliciting a tender strain in your stomach that is just as much sore. That considerate young man, caring for something as minor as pain. Doubt creeps in, you keep it to yourself. You aren’t going to ruin such a hard-built facade that Commander Miller has constructed. Threading your fingers into the softness of his hair you shake your head with a small smile. For a split second the cloak of his sanguinity loosens: a slight twitch of his lip, a veil of red in his eye. He meets your gaze with a barely-there scowl, tense like he’s going to throw himself into your arms. Instead, he bites his lip and swallows.

“Turn around.” A sly grin is back in place, he’s caressing your hipbone with his thumb.

You do so as he gets off you, scan the floor for your pants where you’d put a condom before leaving to town. But of course he’s got one too.

His hand lies on your hip.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he murmurs. You feel pressure against your entrance, but what presses into you is too big for a finger, or even two. Well, you can take it all.

He enters with deliberate care, massaging circles into your skin. It would’ve been funny if you weren’t hit with raw pressure, both igniting and numbing in your thighs. You bite down a breath as Miller adjusts – not that long but thick enough. For a brief moment you regret not having persuaded him into more thorough caresses. Is his dick cut like yours?

But as he commences shallow thrusts, you forget your curiosity. His grip hardens, legs slick against yours. He’s hammering, but with precision that makes your jaw drop and your toes curl. And just when the ache in your gut has embodied, he slows down, rolling into you in curved waves and circles.

Panting, you press your forehead to the mattress and watch your cock twitching with every thrust he makes. Miller’s breaths are sharp but he’s not vocal, and you hear loud smacks of his balls against yours.

It’s _sweet_ , and if you weren’t drunk, you would’ve already come. Miller holds onto you and speeds up again. His pants morph into groans. You can make them louder.

Rising on your elbows, you start bucking toward him, meeting his thrusts with precise, steady pace. His hands glide up your sides, rubbing you into flushing mess. Your back feels hotter as he leans onto you, splayed. He reaches around and cups your pecs, squeezing them hard. It doesn’t excite you much on its own, but the gesture alone binds knots of pleasure in your lower abdomen. He slams faster; it’s raw and wet and overwhelming, he’s heavy against your back. Your thighs tremble. It’s getting harder to hold down.

“Come for me, _baby_ ,” he whispers into your ear, his lips brushing against the junction of your neck and jaw.

You want to say you love him. So much. Want to tell him you’d do anything for him. Instead, you drive a faster pace as he wraps his fingers around your cock and pumps it with a trembling hand. You mumble a _yes_ , all the rest stuck in your head on replay as he pushes in and out and squeezes you with his gorgeous body.

This is the strongest orgasm you’ve had in months, maybe even years. There’s a static sound in your ears. You feel Miller’s weight more distinctly. Your ass is sore but you try not to clench and let him finish. Perhaps you should’ve offered to suck him off, swallow his semen or let him come on your face, but with a drawn moan and a few jolts of his hips he ceases. The pressure eases and he slides off you, breathing hard.

It doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere. Resting on his side, his hair damp. He removes the full condom, ties it, throws it to the bin. Sighs, propping his arm under his cheek.

“’t was good,” he murmurs. You nod, snuggling behind him and pulling a blanket up to his middle. Miller turns his head to you with a questioning look.

“There’s a draft,” you explain, not knowing where to put your hands. “You’ll catch a cold if you fall asleep overheated.”

“Okay, Doc,” he chuckles, rubbing his face into the pillow. “I hope you don’t snore.”

You blink, taken aback. Nobody’s ever complained but suddenly you’re insecure.

“Have you had a lot of snoring partners?” you ask, wrapping an arm around Miller’s waist. He doesn’t move under the touch.

“Not many,” he yawns. “But that’s never pleasant, you know.”

You nuzzle the crook of his neck and place a telltale kiss on his shoulder. Even after such a workout Miller smells nice.

You stumble out of deep slumber with a razor-sharp sunray glaring at your face. Blinking, you scan your surroundings: the hotel room, in which you and Commander Miller– he’s not here. On the floor lie your clothes but none of his belongings. You peek into the trash bin, jumping across the room as you tug on your pants. There’s a used condom in it.

It’s half past six; if you’re lucky, you’ll arrive at the camp by seven. You run out of the hotel and down the path buttoning the shirt on your way: the shift starts at six.

Nobody seems to be around as you sneak out of the trees surrounding the tents and tiptoe to the med bay.

You barely manage to change before the rush starts. Mustang got stomach flu, and before everyone knew it the infection spread over. By the afternoon a group returns from a mission that went pretty badly. Four men have gunshot wounds, two are stabbed, one in critical condition. It’s past nine when you finally roll off your bloodied gloves and come outside for a cigarette. You smoke three in a chain.

You’re exhausted, but sleep isn’t hurrying to take you as you lie still in bed, staring at the tent’s ceiling.

It's busy in the bay the next three days. You’re running out of supplies. On a break you consider making an official request, and your gut shrinks at the thought. You haven’t seen Commander Miller since that night.

But it’s nothing you can’t handle, is it? You sit down and extract a blank, write down your codename. The tent opens, Boss himself is at the doorway. You stand up and salute.

“At ease,” he mutters and gestures behind him. A young man comes closer: tall, quite slim for a soldier, wearing glasses.

“This is Cougar,” Boss says. A hint of a grin edges on his stone face. “Your new nurse. Figured you need a hand.”

Cougar salutes you and calls you Sir. You shake your head, show him around. Boss is gone before you get to the card-index. His steps are always so quiet.

With a trainee to teach you remember the request only further into the evening. Everyone’s on their way to dinner. You peek out of the tent: Miller is nowhere around the campfire. Either out or working. You tell Сougar to go join the rest, and sit down to finish the form.

Your feet resist you while you drag them to the Command tent. Right before it you check your breath: it smells... well, bad. You should’ve washed your face and teeth. But hey, you’re here just to give in the supply request. It’s a business matter and you’ll leave in a minute. Then why is your heart pounding so fast and loud in your chest?

Commander Miller is sitting at his desk, head buried in papers, his watch glistening in the lamp light. He doesn’t look up as you approach and halt on your unfirm legs.

“What is it,” he barks, fingers of his left hand clacking on a calculator as he’s taking notes with his right one.

“Good evening, Commander,” you say in your most polite tone. Clear your dry throat.

“Uh-huh,” he says, focused on his account. “Can I do anything for you?”

He straightens in his seat, groaning with a stretch of his arms. Folds them on the desk, peering at you through the tight armor of aviators.

“Yes, we’re running short on medication,” you utter, handing him the paper. Miller snatches it and skims through. Puts it down. Makes a short nod.

“Alright, I’ll take care of procurement process; await a resupply approximately by Friday.”

Just like that, he’s back to his business, not minding your presence. You find it hard to move, although it’s not easier to say anything. What could you say anyway?

“Anything else?” Miller prompts without looking at you. His voice is flat, alien almost.

“No, thank you, Commander.”

On the way back Сougar beckons you to join the group for dinner. You do, chewing the beef way too slowly as you stare at the campfire. Somehow, swallowing is hard to manage.  

Your sleep is restless this night, as soon as you doze off you wake up from a wacky dream. Miller turns up in the med bay, heavily injured. Says he’d hate it if you touched him and asks Сougar to treat his wounds. Infection gets in, he’s in great pain. You know you can help, but Miller keeps waving you off. His arm looks enormously swollen, he might be in need of amputation. It grows bigger, blackens. You wake up in cold sweat before you know what happens to him.

You drink some water. Sleeping pills might help but they’re a luxury you can’t waste on yourself. Boss sometimes needs them. You turn to your side and drift off.

You and Miller lie on a beach, he’s leaning onto your shoulder, his arm around you middle. He nuzzles your jaw, you feel him smiling against your skin. He’s so warm and gentle against you; you cup his face and kiss his closed eyelids. When he opens them, his eyes of brilliant blue gaze at you with genuine tenderness. You kiss his lips and wake up in the darkness of the tent. Сougar snores from the far corner.

You peel off your damp tee and throw it on the floor. Bring trembling fingers to your mouth. Your throat is blocked with a strained spasm. After another glass of water you sit back on the edge of your bed and dig your fingers into your temples.

Days fly with loads of work. More and more recruits enter MSF, more and more patients turn up in the med bay. You and Cougar barely make it together. Supplies wind down before it’s Friday again.

It’s different at nights. In the heat of your bed you can’t stop envisioning Commander Miller’s face from that night. _Your_ night. You dream of him calling you by your name, your _real_ one.

After the academy incident you swore you wouldn’t ever let your feelings overtake reason. But every time you hear the gleeful chirp of Miller’s voice across the camp, your heart stutters.

It’s a particularly merciless Sunday afternoon. It’s been raining the whole day but now the setting sun is blazing and the air’s melting. You suffocate and keep gulping on water that dries in your throat before it can reach your food pipe.

For once it’s quiet. Cougar has left to town – he earned that. The few patients in the bay are asleep and you’re finishing changing Anteater’s bandages when the tent slides open.

Commander Miller hurries inside, holding his forehead. There’s blood dripping down his arm. You leap up to him and support him by the elbow, lead him to a cot. He sits down and lets you take off his glasses.

“What happened?”

You peer at the split rising from below his brow up to his forehead. The eyelid itself is swollen and there’s a bruise blooming around it. There’s blood on his mouth, too, painting his bottom lip with a blur of scarlet. He squints at you – the bay’s artificial lights are too much for him to bear.

“Nothing much, got into a fight,” he mutters, adjusting himself on the cot. “Overdid it this time.”

You take his face into your gloved hands, examining the wound. A stitch might leave a scar.

“Be careful next time,” you say, glancing into his eyes that are locked on yours just for a split second. Your chest tightens.

Carefully, you clean the cut and apply antiseptic to it. Miller winces a little, unfocused as he stares right in front of himself.

“It’s going to sting a little,” you warn him and can’t refrain from a light pat to his cheek. He nods.

But when the needle pierces his skin – you work neatly so the scar won’t be too noticeable – Miller closes his eyes. A single tear rolls down his cheek. You swallow.

“How’s business, Commander?”

Better be casual. Miller has a sad look about him and you _feel_ that it’s not from the pain. A small talk might be a good distraction for him.

“Fine, actually,” he chuckles. A nice start. “I’m currently negotiating in regards to... Listen,” his voice lowers into a hush. The loveliest hush. “Can you keep secrets?”

Warmth spreads in your stomach. He trusts you enough to enlighten you on important business matters.

“I'm as silent as a grave, Commander.”

Miller takes a deep breath. It doesn’t seem that he’s bothered by the stitching so you work faster, not any less precise.

“Well...” he starts, and the sunny grin is back on his lips. “Since MSF has been rapidly growing, an expansion of the basement becomes necessary. It’s unimpressive that we reside on the outskirts like bums. Nonthreatening. So I’m working on a deal that can provide MSF a new, more reputable residence.” His voice fades into a whisper. “I’m acquiring an abandoned oil platform in the sea. It can be refurbished into a decent base just in a couple of months. But don’t tell Snake, okay?”

There’s something fishy about his smirk. But a promise is a promise. You nod.

“It’s a surprise,” Miller clarifies. “The glory will be ours.”

Even though he’s smiling, his eyes are distant. He looks dreamy.

With a final stitch you put down the instruments and run your forearm across your forehead. Your back and neck are sore but Miller’s jaunt _thank you_ makes it fade into insignificance. Taking a few band-aids, he leaves. You sit down, nursing the half-prickling warmth in your stomach. It’s comforting and aching, but the worst is that you can’t banish the image of Miller’s sincere expression when he let you into his secret. Something only he and you know.

Days flash in front of your eyes as you stitch wounds, wring back broken bones and treat infections. It’s hard work, but the thought that you’re doing it for the sake of MSF’s prosperity makes you enthusiastic. For the sake of your Commander, too.

A new doctor is hired. He’s younger than you but worked in the field longer, so you can exchange experience. When MSF grows you’ll have a whole Medical Unit. Things will be grand with some patience, so you keep going. Boss keeps going on grave missions. Miller keeps the business running. A shared dream coming into reality is closer than it’s ever been.  

Another night you’re vigil with anxious excitement throbbing in your veins. You’ve been having dreams about Kaz on the beach with you more and more frequently. He smiles at you when you sleep, and he’s far out when you’re awake. You’ve gotten used to the dull pain in your chest whenever you glimpse his wistful face turned to the horizon. When he thinks nobody’s watching, you can see unknown sorrow creeping in his youthful features. But you can only watch from afar.

It’s past midnight when you come out for a smoke. The camp’s silent and the breeze is cool.

A subdued rustle from one of the tents catches your attention. You walk closer. There are voices speaking in low. A strain in one of them washes over you like a cold wave.

It’s the Command tent. The entrance has a crack, and you crane your neck to peek. What you see inside makes your whole body go numb.

Boss is standing in an immense posture, his broad shoulders spread. His eye is obscured by the dim light, eyepatch gaping like a dark pit. His lips are a thin line. At his feet kneels Commander Miller, one arm wrapped around Boss’s leg, fingers clutching his fatigues. His neck is exposed with a tilt of his head leaning to Boss’s thigh. Aviators aren’t on Miller’s slender nose; there’s so much misery in his eyes. His lips tremble as he speaks, but you only catch a couple of words that the wind carries along.

“...why... does it have to be... just–”

Boss’s large hand lies on top of his head. The gesture is imperious, and Miller looks up at him, as if pleading. So much devotion in that look, but no less belligerence. As if daring, Miller closes his eyes as Boss’s fingers slide to his neck and circle around it in a clawing hold.

You turn away, walking as fast as you can to the beach. Cold sweat breaks on your forehead. You heart is being clawed as Miller’s neck is being clawed and you can’t help it. The pieces fall together and form a full picture now. It hits you hard in the gut as you run up to the shore and kneel to the water. You feel sick. Even more sick that you _care_ this much.  

Next morning you see Miller chatting with the soldiers over breakfast. He’s laughing. The stitch didn’t leave a scar. His ascot is fixed tight around his neck. You take in a ragged breath and squint your prickling eyes.

How can you save a man who doesn’t want to be saved?


End file.
